A Dance of Cloaks (34 page)

“I’d much rather have my room,
our
room, in our mansion safely tucked in city walls,” Madelyn insisted.

“Do you desire tight spaces so strongly?” he asked, frowning.

Madelyn sighed.

“I don’t know. Perhaps when your camp is made I’ll change my mind. Just promise me, if I desire to return to the city, you will let me go? I can take some of the sellswords with me, and I doubt I will be hard pressed finding a legion of servants and working girls wishing to come with me into the city.”

“I’ve found the boy,” Torgar shouted as he rode up from the south.

“A boy no longer,” Laurie said, turning to greet them. Taras Keenan rode beside Torgar, looking more the son of the sellsword than the thin noble. He was on the cusp of his seventeenth birthday, and had spent every day of their slow trek to Veldaren practicing with the mercenaries. More annoying to Madelyn, he had grown rather fond of Torgar and chosen him as his favored teacher and sparring partner.

“Until I fight a man in honest combat, I’ll still be a boy,” said Taras.

“That sounds like Torgar talking,” Madelyn said, her tone disapproving.

“Just a gentle reminder to mother that I’ll still be her precious child for a little while longer,” Taras said.

“Good to know you have your mother’s tongue instead of Torgar’s, at least,” Laurie said. “But now I have something a bit more important for you, Torgar. Go to both Connington and Gemcroft and invite them to our lovely hills. Do your best to convince them. Remind them it is my year to host, and they cannot refuse a place given once I have tables down and food to eat.”

“Mention food and we’ll get Leon down here, even if it’s in the middle of a pig sty,” Torgar said with a deep laugh. “Heard he’s having a hard time getting his delicacies with all the guilds running amok. Shall I bring the boy with me on my duties, milord?”

Madelyn’s glare was a clear no, and that was enough to make up Laurie’s mind.

“Aye, you should,” he said. “Remember, Taras, I have given Torgar charge in these matters, not you, so do not contradict him unless absolutely necessary.”

Taras could hardly contain his excitement. He hadn’t been to Karak’s city of stone since he was nine, and his memories had long faded into worthless patches of images.

“Come,” he shouted to Torgar. “The city’s waiting for us!”

He galloped off, the sellsword dashing after. Madelyn scowled and looked away. When Laurie saw this, he felt anger growing in his chest.

“He must learn responsibility in these matters,” he said. “Dealing with the other members of the Trifect will do him good.”

“It’ll do him dead,” Madelyn said. “You send your own son into Veldaren with a single mercenary to guard his back? We’ll find them tossed aside in the street, rotting in the sewers, all because you’d rather camp under stars and save yourself an orc-scrap of coin.”

“Mind your tongue, woman,” Laurie said.

For a minute they rode in silence, Laurie’s horse trotting slowly behind the wagon as Madelyn sat with crossed arms atop her cushions. When the wagon halted suddenly, Laurie veered to side. They’d come to the first of the hills, and slowly the lead riders were heading off into the high grass, moving carefully with men on foot scouting ahead to make sure no holes or sudden dips threatened their wagon wheels.

“We’re here,” Laurie said. “We’ll have a comfortable camp set up for you in no time.”

“No you won’t,” Madelyn said. “I’m going home. Our real home.”

When Laurie glared, she glared back.

“You promised,” she reminded him.

The man swallowed, swishing his tongue side to side as if swallowing something distasteful.

“I will miss you dearly,” he said. “But go to the city if you must. I’ll get you an escort. Two armed men traveling together may not appeal much to the mob, but a gaggle of servant girls and a noble lady in her litter will prove a different matter entirely.”

He rode away in a far fouler mood than when he’d returned from the gate.

E
thric had been involved in many riots, but he’d never seen one created so spontaneously out of so little. He walked down the middle of the open street, almost euphoric at the chaos. Karak, being a god of order before his banishment by Celestia, should have frowned upon such activities, but Ethric felt them lift his heart. The only thing worse than chaos was false order, the kind established by faithless kings and the worshippers of Ashhur. Let chaos burn down the falsehood like fire upon a crumbling home. From the ashes, he and his kind would build anew.

At the western gate he came across a filthy beggar sitting beside the road. He was blind, and before him was a clay pot. Ethric watched as a chubby merchant wearing red and purple silks atop his tunic tossed in a handful of coins. Before the merchant could escape, the dark paladin was there, grabbing his arm while stabbing his sword into the pot.

“Let go of me,” the merchant shouted as he tried to wrench his arm away. Ethric’s grip did not release. When he pulled the sword out of the pot, the sharp tip had pierced through the center of one of the coins.

“What charity is this?” Ethric asked as black fire surrounded the blade.

“Help for those less fortunate,” said the chubby man as he looked around for someone to aid him. There were none. Everyone recognized Ethric’s black armor, the dark flame of his blade, and the white lion skull painted on his breastplate. Just like the priests of Karak, the paladins were forbidden from entering Veldaren, but when inside they were never seen. Better to safely ignore the darkness than call it out and risk death.

“Shall you buy your way into eternity?” asked Ethric. The coin slowly melted, the copper dripping down the length, bubbling and popping. “If copper to a blind man saves your soul, imagine your rewards if you threw gold to the feet of a truly holy man.”

“You’re evil,” the merchant said. Ethric felt impressed by his courage.

“Evil?” he asked. He ripped the silks from the man’s tunic and held them aloft. “You parade before a blind man in wealth that could feed him for years while tossing him a pittance you will never miss. That is not piety. That is disgusting.”

He turned and rammed the silk into the blind man’s pot. The merchant stood with his hands shaking, his eyes torn between the dark paladin and the silk.

“No fighting, have mercy. A kindness is a kindness no matter the size,” the blind man said, trying to defuse the situation. Ethric only smiled and gestured to the pot. His sword still burned with fire.

“What is more important to you?” he asked. “Your wealth, or your supposed bribes to the fates?”

When the merchant reached down for the silk, Ethric cut him down. With two vicious hacks, he separated the head and dumped it atop the pot. The blood poured freely, ruining the silk and drenching the few coins within.

“Gifts are always repaid in blood,” Ethric said to the blind man. “Mercy is a delusion. Grace is weakness masked in lies.”

By now a crowd had surrounded him, shouting and pointing angrily. The dark paladin smiled, and when he stretched out his sword, the people made him a path. With so many swarming the streets, it took a good while for the city guard to arrive. The guards, hearing his description, put up only a token search before returning to their patrols. They would cross no swords with a dark paladin of Karak, not without an army at their back.

Despite the delay, Ethric’s mood remained good. He had very little to work with in his search for the faceless women, but Pelarak had given him one tangible lead. On the inside of the wall, about half a mile north of the western gate, Pelarak had told him of a crack. It was wide, running perpendicular to the stones of the wall like a lone bolt of lightning. If he ever needed to contact the faceless women in urgency, he would have an apprentice leave a note in the crack while the stars were bright. By morning, it’d be gone.

Ethric found the crack, looking exactly as it’d been described to him. The street was quiet, modest homes with immodest fences on either side. They appeared new, most likely built after Thren’s little war had started. He removed his glove and put his hand against the deepest part of the crack.

A smile lit up his face. His lengthy training had taught his body to become attuned to all things magical, both clerical and wizardly in nature. Deep inside the crack was a simple alert spell, one that would send warning to the caster whenever the ward was tripped. The faceless women would never need to check, yet would always know when they had a message and could retrieve it before the dawn. Seeing such beauty in its simplicity, Ethric reminded himself to treat his foes with greater respect.

Deciding to treat simplicity with simplicity, he found a large rock and shoved it into the crack, tripping the ward. Now the only question that remained was how long it’d take one of the women to arrive. Since he’d placed the ‘message’ in the middle of the day, they’d certainly know something was amiss.

“Patience serves the wise,” Ethric said, finding himself a seat beside a fence. He leaned his back against the bars. He was out of sight from any travelers on the road, and he doubted the owner of the home would be stupid enough to call him out from his position. All he had to do was watch and wait.

T
hren led the way, the rest of his guild following, minus Aaron and Senke who were still busy cleaning blood off the floor. They weaved through the Merchant Way, for once their hands staying out of foreign pockets. The riots would soon be there. Thren had personally started two fires, and his men had started three more. They did not burn homes. They torched the storehouses, rendering food all the more precious. Butcher after butcher retreated into his shop, persuaded through either coin or dagger. Bakers fared no better. They either shut their ovens down for a day, or shut them down forever.

“The tradesmen will point their finger at you once this day is done,” Kayla said as she traveled beside him. Thren only laughed.

“After this day is done, I don’t care. Today we need hunger and riots.”

With quick hand gestures, Thren positioned his men up and down the road. In every corner, in every stall, the Spider Guild occupied Merchant Way. Thren stood at the intersection with Castle Road, the main throughway that led north to south from the wall to the castle. A few of his most trusted men had discarded their cloaks and joined the hungry, complaining masses in the south. If they did their jobs, the riots would surge north at a frightening pace.

For twenty minutes, they waited. Thren kept his hood pulled low, and he smiled at those that noticed him. He felt unafraid. Only a full troop of mercenaries would give him concern. Beside him was a modest jeweler selling baubles in preparation for the Kensgold. Accompanying Laurie Keenan’s return to Veldaren would be a host of camp followers, not to mention the many servant girls, dancers, and singers. Every one of the jeweler’s trinkets was sold with the promise of irresistible allure to those women.

“My things are safe?” the bald jeweler asked him at one point. Thren nodded.

“You’ve been good to me, Mafee,” the guildmaster said. “When I draw my sword, take your merchandise and go.”

More minutes crawled by. The only tense moment was when a squad of mercenaries marched through. They didn’t give the gray cloaks a second look, instead hurrying on toward the castle. Thren scratched at his chin, his signal to leave them be.

A chorus of shouts rose from the south. Thren looked down Castle Road and was pleased at the sight. Over four hundred made up the first wave. He recognized one of their shouts as an anthem Senke had devised. ‘Bread or blood,’ they shouted. One or the other, they’d have it, and Thren knew which one he preferred. He drew his sword and placed the tip by his right foot. All down Merchant Way, gray cloaks did the same. Mafee saw it, shoved his cheap jewelry into a burlap sack, and bolted into his home directly behind his stall.

“Bread or blood!” Thren shouted as the mob reached him.

“Bread or blood!” the mob shouted in return, led loudest by spies of the Spider Guild. They had meant to travel north to the castle, but by skillful prodding, they turned down Merchant Way instead. Stalls for bakers and meat carvers were empty and unguarded, and as the mobs passed, gray cloaks kicked and tore them apart. Given a taste of carnage, the mob wanted more.